Secession: The Storm

by Joe Nobody

  Shaking his head in disbelief, Zach decided it couldn’t hurt. He began reading every name he could find on each page. Sam made a list, scribbling on a legal pad, occasionally asking for clarification of a spelling.

  The next step involved the pair entering each name and searching both the worldwide web and a law enforcement database used by the Houston cops.

  Some common names returned thousands of results. Roland Ford, a.k.a. the burly NOPD sergeant, filled Sam’s laptop with pages of links and references. The clerk on record as having filed the case was even worse, given her name appeared on practically every court document filed over a period of 12 years.

  They were on the edge of calling it a night when Sam entered the name, A.P. Miller into the search engine. Zach was already standing, pulling on his jacket before heading to the door.

  “Hold on a second… this is interesting,” she said. “Have you ever heard of A.P. Miller before?”

  “No,” Zach considered, trying to place the name.

  “How about Aaron Miller?”

  After a moment, the ranger’s answer was the same. “Nope.”

  Sam turned her laptop around so he could see a picture on the screen. Zach recognized President Clifton immediately, but the man beside her didn’t ring a bell.

  “So?” he asked, still having no clue.

  “I can’t be sure it’s the same man, but the White House chief of staff is Aaron Miller. The lawyer from the Louisiana Attorney General’s office who filed the motion for all of Mr. Hendricks’s files to be sealed was A.P. Miller.”

  Something in Sam’s explanation registered with Zach. “Hold on a minute… I saw that name on one of these other papers.”

  It took the ranger another 15 minutes of searching before he found what he was looking for. “This is a deposition Mr. Hendricks’s attorney conducted with Sergeant Ford. Look here, where he asked Ford if the NOPD had requested any legal opinion on the order to confiscate private weapons.”

  After taking the paper from Zach, Samantha began reading the record aloud:

  “Sergeant Ford, did you or your superiors request any clarification when you received the orders to confiscate private weapons?”

  Ford: “No, sir, we did not. The man who briefed us on the new directive was from the state’s Office of the Attorney General, and he seemed to know what he was doing. He visited our temporary station and outlined our responsibilities.”

  Plaintiff Rep: “During this briefing, no one asked any questions?”

  Ford: “No, sir, this attorney was passionate and thoroughly convinced that NOPD had the right to execute the confiscation. As a matter of fact, I recall this lawyer saying he had prepared the legal justification for the mayor and police commissioner. None of us gumshoes were going to question that.”

  Plaintiff Rep: “And who was this attorney from Baton Rouge?”

  Ford: “I don’t recall exactly. I think his name was Miller… something like that.”

  Plaintiff Rep: “Are there any other details of that meeting you can remember, Sergeant?”

  Ford: “When the meeting was breaking up, I remember walking out behind this guy. He was talking to another officer. I heard him say, ‘Anybody with a gun in New Orleans falls into the same category as a looter – lethal force is justified.’”

  Sam looked up, shaking her head in disbelief. “If it is the same guy, we now know what pushed Mr. Hendricks over the edge.”

  Zach nodded, “We also have a pretty good idea why this was all sealed and hushed. The second most powerful person in the world… the guy whispering in the president’s ear not only made a horrible call on the Second Amendment, but was overheard instructing a police officer to kill offenders. Wow!”

  “That’s not the worst of it,” Sam noted. “The cover-up is more politically damaging. If this had been made public before the vote, it might have had a significant impact on the election. I think the trail of who shot Mr. Hendricks might have just gotten hot again.”

  “But the election is over,” Zach replied.

  “Not the referendum on the secession,” Sam reminded the ranger. “This could still blow up in their faces.”

  Zach hadn’t thought of that, his mind charging forward with the ramifications of their discovery. “So what do we do with this little nugget of truth?”

  “Honesty is always the best policy,” came the instant response.

  “Bullshit,” Zach countered. “Seriously, do we keep this under our hats? Report it to our superiors? What?”

  Sam rubbed her temples, the potential reverberations causing her head to hurt. After a few moments, she stopped and shrugged. “Do you want Texas to secede or not? I’m just the good-looking sidekick in this adventure… the eye candy of our crime-fighting duo. You’re the brains, Zachariah Bass – do you want to live in a state, or a republic?”

  Zach pretended to be hurt by the analogy. “I thought I was the sex appeal of this outfit.”

  His response was a well-thrown couch cushion. “Get out of my apartment,” she hissed, barely managing to keep a straight face. “Unlike some people, I’ve got to hit the office early. Now get!”

  Zach stopped at three convenience stores before he found one with a copy machine. After acquiring a roll of quarters, he began the process of duplicating the pertinent pages from the lockbox.

  Retiring to the truck, he then highlighted A.P. Miller’s name on the copied documents, scrawling “White House COS,” in block text along the margin.

  After placing the copies in an envelope, he returned both sets to his briefcase and headed for home.

  All the way back to Austin, the ranger mulled over the situation. The time passed quickly, the abrupt appearance of his driveway illuminated in the headlights’ beam a small surprise.

  “I think Sam asked the right question,” he said to no one. “Do I want Texas to secede or not? This information is a game changer, and I can’t take it lightly.”

  He exited the truck, taking in the small, rented home in the moonlight. The yard needed a good trim, and there were weeds growing up through the gravel in the drive. “How did I get myself into this shit?” he whispered.

  Chapter 11 – Reaction

  The special commission began its work, the final goal being to negotiate what became known as the Treaty of Secession, or TOS. Those disillusioned with the process began referring to the acronym as the “Ton of Shit.”

  There were 28 members, half of them Democrats, half Republicans. It was agreed that the White House would nominate 50% of the members, the State of Texas an equal number. A process identical to voir dire, the most common jury selection technique, was implemented.

  Once formed, the new organization elected its own hierarchy.

  In the end, the make-up of the commission was quite impressive. Comprised of economists, politicians, business leaders, two university presidents, and a former Supreme Court justice, it was difficult for either side to find fault with the members’ credentials. One newspaper went so far as to call the membership “the greatest collection of intellectual firepower convened since the Constitutional Convention.”

  The secession movement attracted strange bedfellows, the camps for and against not at all what folks expected. The strongest supporters were on the liberal side of the aisle, the most vocal opponents on the right. The non-Texas Republicans possessed a strong, well-founded fear that Heidi Clifton would roll over the entire country with left-leaning legislation if Texas separated. Much to the offense and surprise of their brethren in the Lone Star State, the conservative right denounced the entire concept.

  States like Wyoming, Tennessee, and Utah were the most vocal about “maintaining balance,” and “stronger together.” Proponents argued that “the balance” had meant gridlock and inaction, and that “together,” meant knife fighting in a phone booth.

  Like almost every other major issue facing the United States in the last 12 years, gridlock ensued. The days passed, each bringing a new argument, point-of-view, or ang
le to the debate. The commission continued to move forward, however, working out of the limelight, negotiating the details, timelines, rules, and policies of the treaty.

  It was a monumental undertaking, requiring enormous resources and expertise. The White House fought many battles, fending off repeated calls from Congress to stop the madness and quit wasting valuable resources. President Clifton would respond to her critics by requesting a status updating her proposed legislation, which of course, had gone nowhere.

  “It seems Congress has nothing better to do,” she said during one Sunday morning interview. “They aren’t passing any legislation, not solving any of the nation’s real issues, so why not dedicate resources to determine if the United States and Texas would both be better served by separating?”

  Zach blinked hard, in an effort to clear the fog from his eyes. His head was pounding, the dial on his watch refusing to come clean and show him the time.

  Finally, the numbers appeared.

  “Shit!” he snapped, throwing back the covers and rolling his feet over the edge of the bed.

  He was still trying to button his shirt ten minutes later, rushing out the door… the task made more complicated by the two hangover-reduction aspirins he clutched in one hand.

  Throwing the truck in reverse, he almost didn’t see Mr. Porter walking his dog in the pre-dawn coolness. It seemed like it took an eternity for the elderly neighbor to pass by.

  Zach’s head felt like it was being split with an axe, his eyes unable to blink away the alcoholic haze, the lights on the dash still not entirely clear. He searched around the cab, looking for his reliable stash of bottled water, but there wasn’t any. With a scowl of resignation, he tossed the two tablets into his mouth and began chewing the bitter pills.

  The fowl taste of rancorous, after-beer slime, combined with the chalk-like cure, made the Texan’s stomach heave. He managed the side of the road, thankful for the early hour and the few passing drivers who witnessed his convulsions. The worst part was seeing the bits of aspirin floating in the sea of bile and realizing his headache would continue to rage unabated.

  It was 30 minutes to the agreed upon rendezvous, Zach using the drive time to pine for something, anything, to rinse his mouth of the rotten taste. Looking in the mirror, he caught a glimpse of his own face, the image prompting another cramping pain in his gut.

  Sleep deprived, bloodshot eyes peered back in the reflection, each orb surrounded by dark circles of too much beer and not enough shuteye. The worst was the second-day stubble on his face, a clear indication of a man who did not have his act together.

  “That’s not the image of a professional officer of the law,” Zach mumbled, doing his best imitation of Major Alcorn and anticipating what would surely be his speech. “That’s not how a Texas Ranger reports for duty.”

  “Fuck you, Major Tight-ass… and the Texas Rangers,” he hissed.

  Zach tried to make up time, using the lack of traffic and a break-neck pace to eat away the miles. Despite the effort, it was clear he wasn’t going to make it.

  “I need to call those deputies and tell them I’m running late,” he mumbled, feeling his pockets for his cell. “Knowing those two gung-ho dicks, they’ll get all puffy-chested and try to go in there without me.”

  Patting down his vacant pockets, Zach’s hangover headache inevitably worsened. He didn’t have his cell phone, the forgotten device probably resting comfortably on his kitchen counter. “Fuck!” he yelled at the empty cab, the outburst serving only to enhance his throbbing skull. “Did you forget your gun and badge, too?”

  Zach reached his belt and double-checked that his pistol was indeed in its holster. The checkered grip of the .45 did little to reassure him. “What a sorry ass excuse you are for a lawman,” he mumbled.

  He’d been drinking way, way, too much since the discovery in Abe Hendricks’s lockbox. The stakes were extremely high, the pressure of his knowledge nearly unbearable. Why didn’t he listen to Alcorn in the first place? Why had he stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong?

  The ongoing national headlines regarding the secession didn’t make things any easier. Any fool could see the country was a tinderbox, ready to erupt in an inferno. “And here I am, a drunken idiot, holding the match.”

  Lawmen were trained, steered, managed, and forced to keep secrets. Confidentiality was a trademark of the profession. Yet Zach struggled with the knowledge he possessed.

  Yesterday, he’d made up his mind to tell the world. He had the package all ready for delivery, had a plan all worked out. He would disguise his face, approach the Houston television station in the wee hours, and drop off the envelope addressed to Ross Garcia. Zach had witnessed the man’s star on the rise and figured he had the balls and wherewithal to make national noise.

  His fortitude, however, had begun to waiver, his bravery leaking away. What if releasing the information locked away in his gun safe caused unrest or violence? What if his disclosure resulted in riots with people being killed or harmed? How many lives was this single Texas Ranger willing to impact? How much history did he intend to write?

  The only thing that seemed to manage the weight on the Texan’s shoulders was booze… a lot of painkilling alcohol.

  Finally, the sign announcing the Rodriguez Garage and Body Shop came into view, the rusted blue metal advertisement hanging lopsided from an ancient, roadside post. Zach could see the county patrol cars parked underneath.

  They had a warrant for one Robert William Carter, a.k.a. Buffalo. Mr. Carter was the new president of the Comanchero motorcycle club, a B-grade biker outfit, historically more of a nuisance than a serious threat. With a string of petty thefts, numerous disturbances, and the occasional assault attributed to the gang, law enforcement had always watched closely but didn’t prosecute to the extreme.

  Buffalo’s appearance had changed the profile. Reportedly a recent immigrant from the Hell’s Angels core management in Los Angeles, Mr. Carter was rumored to have been transferred with orders to shape up the lightweight, underperforming affiliate.

  Zach visualized the suspect’s file, the few photographs available making it clear how the man had earned his nickname. At 6’5”, well over 300 pounds, and sporting a wild mop of tightly curled hair, Buffalo truly looked like… well… a buffalo.

  Always understaffed and underfunded, the rural sheriff’s department was ill equipped to penetrate the organization, nor could it deploy any of the sophisticated surveillance techniques available to larger law enforcement departments.

  It was Zach who managed to dig up some dirt on Buffalo, finding a failure to appear warrant issued some years before in San Diego, California. The ranger had used the minor offense to convince a county judge to issue an arrest warrant.

  Alcorn had insisted on Zach being there when the warrant was served. “We think old Buff is establishing relations with the cartel boys,” the boss had stated. “I want a ranger’s eyes looking around inside that biker’s nest. Make sure those fine, young deputies don’t miss anything.”

  Coming to a jerking halt behind the rear patrol car, Zach’s temper flared when he saw both deputies had already entered what was essentially a compound – part junkyard, part garage, and supposedly the flop for the suspect.

  The freshly cut, dangling chain at the now-open front gate confirmed the two eager-beaver officers had already forced their way into the premises. Zach drew his pistol, just sliding through the narrow opening when he heard a loud banging sound.

  “Police! We have a warrant!” a voice shouted. “Pol…”

  The second announcement was interrupted by a loud blast, Zach’s pickled brain somehow identifying the report of a shotgun.

  Adrenaline kicked in, the ranger’s fog clearing instantly. He had managed three running steps before the second shot rang out, quickly followed by two smaller popping noises that were most likely from a pistol.

  Zach rounded a small row of sheds and an old wrecker, his legs pumping at full speed. The two deputies came i
nto view, one sprawled on the ground, writhing in agony, the other bent over his comrade, attempting to render aid.

  The uninjured lawman, startled by Zach’s approaching footfalls, almost shot the ranger. Obviously near panic, the deputy lowered his pistol and returned to assisting the downed man.

  “How bad is he?” Zach barked, taking a knee, his pistol sweeping the doors and windows of the nearby building.

  “He took a 12-gauge blast to the chest,” came the frightened, stuttering voice. “He’s bleeding.”

  Zach scanned again for the shooter before glancing down to assess the injured lawman. With immediate relief, he realized the majority of the buckshot had struck the local deputy in his Kevlar vest. A few pellets had hit an unprotected shoulder, a couple more striking his face.

  “He took the blunt of it in his armor,” Zach announced. “He’s going to be sore as hell, but I think he’ll be okay.”